Invisible Lines (Part 4)

Time lost its meaning for Paul when he worked. One part of his brain was always on alert for signals from his client. That part bantered and talked, gauging response and attention. Most of the rest of him was in a complex fugue of skin, fingers, swab, needle, and ink. Entire designs could take shape under his fingers in the seeming space of a breath, while sometimes seemed he could witness every individual penetration of the needle and deposition of ink. Those experiences often occurred together in a paradox of causality.

Forepaw. Claw.

Working on this woman, Sima, was different. Lack of ink was the obvious, but with it came a heightened attention to the other components. As if he’d been deprived of one sense, and all the others had become stronger. Over and over, Paul jabbed, broke this clean pristine skin, to do… nothing. It felt so gratuitous. Enraging and intriguing at the same time.

Head. Jaw.

Sima’d stopped listening to him. Her sighs, and increasingly obvious arousal didn’t phase him much, though. He’d seen that before, albeit not as intensely. He’d had his share of couples using tattoos as a form of foreplay or mating ritual – one or two even consummating his washroom because they just couldn’t wait.

Whiskers. Teeth.

He could understand. Looked at a certain way, the tattoo needle was a sexual instrument. A tiny sharp cock that didn’t need s pre-existing hole to penetrate you. It made its own, every single time. And its ejaculate, dark or vibrant, and left you impregnated with color, marked forever by its intrusion. Paul had, in this way, pierced, inseminated, left a piece of himself indelibly in thousands of people – men and women, through his career. He also inflicted pain, every time. And to a one, everyone he’d hurt this way had thanked him for doing it. He didn’t get a sexual thrill out of it per se, but this wasn’t a platonic thing.

Rear Leg. Belly.

And now Sima. Here she was, writhing under his needle, in pain and pleasure. And he marked her, yes. But only for now. These bites would fade. Like the eight before, his lines would go invisible, and perhaps even be forgotten one day. Paul thought of his tattoos as art, yes, but it was permanence; a form of procreation. But this… this was just fucking.

He disapproved.

But.

Eyes.

But Sima was coming, under his touch and his needle, and doing so, well, beautifully. Not from the creation of art or the act of change of one’s body, but from the pure destructive acts of the needle. It was moving, in a way, and disturbing. This was his quiet enjoyment of the artful pain he inflicted reflected back at him, but purified and magnified. Pain – and this specific kind – exposed as the end itself rather than the means. And this was the thing she’d craved. The obsession that had driven her to potentially dangerous decisions and situations. And here he was feeding it exactly. True she was a paying, if eccentric client; but was this right? And why was he even asking himself these questions?

His needle, a single round, in one sense the purest form, lanced at her, several times a second, dimpling and piercing her skin, faithfully, linearly, obediently crating the pattern he chose. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, but not steadily anymore; she shook, gasped, shuddered. Paul rode it out with her, pressing, massaging, stretching skin with his left hand, steadying the work area, and drawing, sweeping, lining with his right. She didn’t tell him to stop, so he didn’t stop.

Expression. Stripes.

He counted three orgasms of increasing intensity before Sima descended into a glassy-eyed detachment; conscious, but almost entranced. This was familiar territory for Paul. Lots of his return customers, especially the ones embarking on big, multi-session pieces, strove for a Zen-like state very much like this. None of them got there the same way, though.

Tail. Last Stripes.

The tiger’s tail swept around, halfway between ribs and navel, and Paul was done. Lifting and turning off the needle, he leaned back, and stretched his neck and his fingers. Sima breathed slow and deep, eyes moving slowly between her own red, lined skin, the iron now resting on the work tray, and Paul’s face.

As soon as he’d carefully laid the last strip of tape, he ripped off a glove so he could adjust himself. It was almost uncomfortable by now. Sima’s eyes followed his hand.

The progression from shifting, to unzipping, to freeing his cock from pants and boxers seemed so logical, under her gaze. She’d shown him what he’d done to her, beyond the tatto, it was fair to show what she’d done to him. He might have turned away after that, gone to the restroom and taken care of his own business, if she hadn’t, just then, licked her lips.

Maybe it was late. Maybe it was fatigue or come-down from finishing a job. Maybe… he couldn’t be finished if he didn’t leave some mark. Paul stepped closer to Sima, reached for the chair control and reclined the backrest. She didn’t move away as he brought his ungloved hand to her head, weaving his fingers in her hair and pulling her to him. Her lips closing around his cock were so soft, her mouth wet-hot.

I especially appreciate the Paul’s sensualist experience…the awareness that the lack of ink is heightening his senses to the other elements of his art….that the ink is the illusion. Very interesting. And I didn’t expect him to do what he does at the end here. He seemed so disinterested. Caught me off guard…in a good way.

I see to be stuck here momentarily, locked into part 4 by a rather lusty response to it all. In particular this “A tiny sharp cock that didn’t need s pre-existing hole to penetrate you. It made its own, every single time. And its ejaculate, dark or vibrant, and left you impregnated with color, marked forever by its intrusion. ” makes me crave another tattoo. To feel that again, be marked again….

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